If I forget

 

How did I convince myself
that distance from you
didn't hurt?

That I didn't need
your song in my ear, melody
expanding my heart?

Worse: I told myself lies.
That my absence didn't pain you,
that I had nothing to give.

If I forget you, beloved --
let my fingers lose their grasp,
my throat unlearn how to sing.

Disconnecting from you
would mean shutting off
one of my senses, voluntarily

giving up breathing,
relinquishing a vitamin I need
in order to thrive.

 

 

This is another poem in my Texts to the Holy series.

That my absence didn't pain you.  There is a teaching (found in many places, including Chabad Hasidism) which holds that God created the world (e.g. us) in order to be in relationship -- that God was lonely and yearned (and still yearns) for connection with us.  If I forget you. See psalm 137: "If I forget you, Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth." 

Shabbat shalom to all who celebrate.